


sufficient for thee

by worcky



Category: Far Cry 5, Far Cry: New Dawn
Genre: Crying During Sex, D/s undertones, Devotion, Dubious Consent, Dubiously Consensual Loyalty Kink, Frottage, Kneeling, M/M, Sex as Unhealthy Coping Mechanism, Trauma, bible verses repurposed as dirty talk, dubious everything, unexpected tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:08:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23604304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worcky/pseuds/worcky
Summary: The door opens for the first time in seven years.
Relationships: Male Deputy | Judge/Joseph Seed
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	sufficient for thee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [psychomachia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychomachia/gifts).



> Hey psychomachia, I was obsessed with your letter and everything you had to say and I can only hope I did some of your requested tags justice! You gave so many great options. I ended up going with something between stories, kinda post-mindbreak but pre-full-Judgeification, and enjoyed myself very much. Thank you for such a great request! 
> 
> One of the scripture quotes in this fic comes from Ruth and all the rest are from 2 Corinthians 12, which is where the title is drawn from as well. Is it considered #problematic to headcanon Joseph as a KJV onliest?

Light pours into him, white flame exploding behind his eyes even when he closes them against it. The sudden intensity of it rocks him, trembling deep inside. Somewhere in his mind he’s jostling down the road looking back at the pillar of fire rising into the air, the forest shaking around him and his tongue bitter with the taste of smoke. 

“My child.” The Father’s voice reaches him from a great distance. A hand rests on his shoulder a moment before moving down to his bare wrist, fingers wrapping around it in a reassuring squeeze. The light fades slowly. “What is it?” 

Eyes still closed, he turns his face back toward where he knows the door opened from. Warmth touches his face. Light floods through his eyelids again, its red brilliance a shock he had forgotten. He breathes out and clutches at his own knees one more time, then makes his unwilling hands relax, his body unwind. 

He breathes in measured inhales and exhales and lets Joseph lead him up and out, hand still loose around his wrist. The sun covers him as he takes in the thick smell of earth and grass and forest, his eyes shut against the pain it brought at first. He allows himself to be led further. Grass rustles and rubs against his legs through the denim with each step, a strange thing that threatens to throw him off-balance when he notices it. His fingers tense but he focuses on the familiar warmth of the hand on his wrist and makes himself keep walking through the dark. 

They come to a place where the heat no longer falls directly against his skin and the sensation of light is less demanding. “Sit here,” Joseph says. 

He does so gratefully. His arms rest beside him and he feels the uneven ground beneath his fingertips, strange and new. 

After a moment he hears Joseph sit beside him, the grip on his wrist adjusting. “Open your eyes,” Joseph says, and he does. 

Sunlight falls into his eyes and he almost has to close them against it but he blinks and makes himself keep looking back through the trees into the little clearing full of sun where the two of them walked from. When the looking burns his eyes with its brightness he glances to the side — Joseph’s stained jeans, worn boots — and down at the brown pine needles and leaf matter between his knees. 

Needles and branches scratch and stab at his fingers as they dig in, searching for the earth. When he feels damp soil under his fingernails he can breathe again. He gasps greedily for air and smells the earth, the sun, the dry leaves decaying in the warmth of what might be summer. 

The ground blurs. To inhale, he has to struggle for it. His ears are filled with low buzz like faraway thunder. 

The hand on him presses tighter and relaxes. Joseph’s thumb works repetitive circles into the inside of his wrist, warm and unasked for. The rhythm of that gentle touch finds its way into his pounding blood, through every vein and channel in his body until it seems that the hand that cradles his wrist holds his heart as well. 

.

They travel the forest in a long meandering loop around the place they first emerged. His legs don’t feel like his own. He places his feet in the faint imprints that Joseph’s make. 

Together they pass through a sunlit clearing, tall grass rasping against his knees and all the little yellow and white and purple flowers reaching up toward him. As he looks at them they blur from flowers into indistinct spots of color, barely anything against the brilliant gold-green of the clearing. The breeze wicks away the wetness from his cheeks. 

At the edge of the clearing where light meets shadow a rustling sound stops him in his tracks. A twig cracks behind him. He turns, hand flying to his hip out of instinct, and meets the wide liquid eyes of a doe. She stands not six feet behind him, her slender legs frozen in midstride, staring at him with bold curiosity. 

His heart races with the burst of adrenaline that came too fast for conscious thought to recall. The doe blinks in question. If a gun had been slung there at his side, a hatchet, a knife, she would have been dead before he had even really seen her. His throat tightens.  _ All this time? _ her eyes ask him.  _ All this time, and even now?  _ It is the Father’s voice he hears, gentle with reproach. A bleak wave of shame covers him. Stumbling, he turns away. She watches him go. 

Joseph waits for him deeper into the forest, barely within his blurring line of sight. When he draws near he searches Joseph’s eyes for an answer. Joseph looks away.

Silent, he follows Joseph through the forest. His footsteps seem loud and out of place above the sound of the wind in the branches, the chittering of birds, the sound of water running far away somewhere. Joseph doesn’t turn back to look at him again. 

Where the trees grow sparse he glimpses great patches of blue sky between the branches and feels the sun and wind touch his bare skin. His stomach lurches when Joseph ventures out into a larger clearing, so wide that the far treeline is nearly swallowed up by the tall grass, but he follows. He cannot do anything else. 

Out in the open he stays alert, turning so he can see all around the two of them. The sky overhead is empty blue, an open void. Every rustle of the grass suggests something — he doesn’t know what, or doesn’t want to remember what could be. His heart drums fast in his chest until he grows dizzy, his shirt sticking to the sudden dampness of his skin. He opens one clenched fist and runs his hand over his naked face. It isn’t safe here. 

When he remembers to look around again Joseph is further into the clearing, moving with speed and purpose, too far ahead of him. Guilt grips him and he hurries to catch up through the fear that resists him. 

In the middle of the clearing Joseph stops to look at some pieces of a car lying there: a tire, a pile of rusting doors, an engine. He keeps his eyes on Joseph. He doesn’t know where to look. Joseph is curiously examining the engine. The rust is thick on the doors and he thinks if he were to try to lift one up the others would come with it. The tire is half-buried in the ground with grass growing over it. His vision blurs again. He stands outside his body and watches himself bend down to touch it.  _ Who,  _ his mind is saying, and,  _ You did this. _

.

The shadows lengthen into purple dusk. The forest grows quiet for only a few moments before swelling into life of a new kind, choruses of frogs and night insects cut through by the calls of birds and animals he can’t identify anymore. Joseph leads him back through the darkening forest, their path lit by the last pink rays of sun. 

The door gapes open at their feet like a dead man’s mouth frozen in a silent cry. Joseph descends first, swallowed slowly by shadow. A minute later the electric lights flicker up into a watery, unsteady glow at the bottom of the stairs. 

Something turns over in his stomach. He imagines himself climbing into the mouth and down the long throat into that ravenous stomach, shutting himself into his room, and closing his eyes against the artificial light until he falls into uneasy nightmares. When he wakes again the door will be closed. When he wakes again he knows this day will be a swiftly fading dream like all the other ones before.  _ I can’t,  _ he thinks, tries to say, but his throat tightens and won’t obey him. 

He takes a half step back from the door. He hears the breathing of a wounded animal, uneven and rough, and his head jerks up, searching the blue-shadowed forest. His nails bite into his palms. A sharp pain stabs at his head and he doubles over, trembling. He looks back down at his feet. The mouth stretches wider, waiting.  _ I can’t, _ he tries to say again. It comes out in little useless noises. He hates himself for his weakness, his fear — fear of the animal he cannot see closing in on him, its breath sharp and ragged, and the mouth before him, death, the pit, where he cannot bring himself to follow. Against his will, his muscles tense to run. 

_ No,  _ the memory of mercy in him says, _ no _ — but it wants him to follow the Father down into that open mouth of death, to go willingly into his cage, and then he is sick with himself for thinking a thing like that of the man who saved him. Shaking, he holds his head in his hands, grabbing and tearing at his hair like he could weigh himself down with the pain.  _ Run, _ the sin within him says.  _ No, _ says the part of him that strives. He isn’t strong enough. 

“Come here, my child,” Joseph says from somewhere far below him, worlds away, and he finds his strength again for just long enough to stumble forward and down into the bunker to the kitchen, where he falls to his knees at Joseph’s feet. 

“There you are,” Joseph says, not unkindly, and lays a hand on his head. “Look at me.” 

But he can’t, not like this, not knowing what he just tried to do. The pounding of his heart is a raw, throbbing pain in his throat and chest. He is torn open, exposed, and if he dares to raise his eyes from his own hands clenched on the floor, he will see it in Joseph’s eyes — that Joseph knows, too. Choking on shame, he shakes his head slowly. 

Joseph leans forward in the chair, fingers twisting into his hair and beginning to comb methodically through it. He can hear the soft control of Joseph’s breathing, steady and quiet somewhere beyond the broken animal gasping that he still cannot place. His hands tremble and curl against the concrete. 

“Don’t be afraid,” Joseph tells him. The hand in his hair lets go and moves to rest against his cheek, then slide down to his jaw. Its pressure there is a question, not a command. One finger traces little circles over his bare skin, catching on the stubble. There is a pause in Joseph’s breathing, almost an unsteadiness. “Ruth said, ‘Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee; for whither thou goest, I will go, and where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried; the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.’” Joseph stops and takes another odd breath. “So the two went until they came to Bethlehem.” 

When he dares to meet them, Joseph’s eyes are wide and clear with mercy. Remorse tears at him.  _ I wanted to run,  _ he tries to say with his eyes, and,  _ I am filthy, _ and, _ I’m sorry. _ He clutches uselessly at Joseph’s knees, his fingers slipping against the rough fabric.  _ Entreat me not to leave thee. _

“Shh,” Joseph murmurs, leaning down toward him, close enough that he can feel the touch of Joseph’s breath upon his cheek. 

Both of Joseph’s hands are in his hair now, running through it over and over with gentleness that he wishes he had the strength to reject it and pull away from such undeserved touch the way Joseph should have pulled away from him. He has no strength left, though; he is weak now, so he leans up into the touch, eagerly devouring every scrap of Joseph’s grace. His eyes sting and blur. 

“You’re so strong,” Joseph tells him, and he shakes his head numbly, not willing to believe it. A half-smile flickers across Joseph’s face. Something else blazes together with the mercy he can still see in Joseph’s eyes, something bright and hard and almost angry. It comforts him. Joseph’s fingertips scratch at his scalp and comb back through his hair and he closes his burning eyes. There’s that little catch in Joseph’s breath again. “Everything you’ve done…” 

Then Joseph’s uneven breath is against his forehead, and Joseph’s hands tighten in his hair, and Joseph is kissing him, mouth fierce and damp against his head, his temples, his hair. The shock of the touch makes him tremble, and once his body has begun to shake he cannot get it to stop, clinging helplessly to Joseph’s knees as Joseph’s lips find him over and over again. 

_ Stop him, _ says the part of him that strives,  _ you don’t deserve this _ , but he is greedy, starved, tilting his head back to accept all that the Father sees fit to bestow. His stomach clenches in horror at himself for his weakness; he is unclean, an animal, a blood-hungry wolf deserving of death at the shepherd’s hands, and yet he is given gentleness. Love. Not even the guilt that overwhelms him can keep him from wanting it desperately. 

Joseph’s hands run down through his hair to the back of his neck, his shoulders, and then lower over his body, warm on his back and chest through his shirt. His heart leaps into his throat, blood singing even as his stomach knots and his mind cries  _ No! _ It’s been so long since Joseph has touched him this way, years ago in his bed in the bunker at a time his mind shies away from remembering. 

Sounds well up in his throat, aching and pleading to be let out, but he swallows them back until Joseph’s lips drift from his forehead to his eyelids, touching the corners of his eyes with a tenderness that breaks him into pieces. The broken noise he makes pricks and burns at his throat. Surely Joseph sees it, all the ugliness and sin and fear within him, and yet Joseph touches him gently and kisses him with the mouth that speaks the words of God. 

“Get up,” Joseph murmurs in his ear, tugging gently at his shirt, and he obeys as if in a dream. He doesn’t stumble. It’s so easy to lean back against the table and let himself be touched with all the touches he’s too weak to fight. 

Joseph has to stretch up to kiss his forehead again, mouth lingering there as Joseph’s hands caress his sides. He sighs, tilting his head down so Joseph can reach better, and lets his hips angle up unthinkingly when Joseph’s hands slip down to his waist and begin to play with the fastening of his jeans. 

It’s not until Joseph gets his fly down and goes to kneel in front of him that he realizes Joseph’s full intent. He catches futilely at Joseph’s shoulders, wanting to shake his head when Joseph looks up at him with bright, wet eyes, one knee already resting on the floor. In no world would he ever reject a gift such as this, but he can’t bear the thought — after everything else — of the Father kneeling before him like a supplicant. He himself is the only one of them who should ever do such a thing. His grip tightens and he stares at Joseph pleadingly, willing him to understand, until Joseph’s eyes soften into an indescribable look. 

“My child,” Joseph says, and rises, leaning up and in to speak into his ear again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.” 

He wraps his arms around Joseph, trembling in helpless relief, and presses his body up against him to show all his eagerness, his thankfulness for not being asked to endure such a thing. Guilt stabs at him again as he buries his face in the warm crook of Joseph’s neck; close against each other like this, he can feel the physical evidence of how inexplicably Joseph wanted to kneel down and touch him like that. 

Joseph takes a short unsteady breath when he pulls them together. Then Joseph’s arms are around his waist and Joseph’s hips shudder forward against him, the breath let out as a shaky sigh against his ear in a rush of warm air. “For this thing,” Joseph murmurs. 

There’s an odd uncertainty in the silence that follows. Joseph is breathing into his ear, not as measured as before, body hot against him through the worn fabric of his shirt. His own body responds again, blood pounding in his ears as he tightens his arms around Joseph’s bare back and tilts his hips up again in question. When he manages to rub himself over Joseph’s hip, the friction of the denim rough against his hardening cock, a helpless sound escapes him. 

The sound makes Joseph stir in his arms. “For this thing,” Joseph says again, very quietly, and he can feel the uneven thunder of Joseph’s heartbeat clear through the layers of bone and muscle and skin and fabric that keep them apart. He wants to be closer, for Joseph to touch every part of him and cover him in grace. A tremor passes through Joseph’s body, and Joseph jerks against him again, hardness sliding against him. He groans. “For this thing, I asked the Lord thrice, that it might depart from me.” 

One of Joseph’s hands is in his hair again, tangling in it, tugging at it. Little sparks of pain prickle in his scalp and rush down into him like lightning. He squeezes his eyes closed as Joseph’s other hand presses into the small of his back, urging him forward even as Joseph’s body pushes him back against the table. 

“And He said unto me,” murmurs Joseph, and breaks off with a ragged breath out, hips rolling forward with urgency. 

He cannot bear how Joseph feels against him, whole and warm and perfect, the raised scars on Joseph’s back slipping under his sweaty fingertips. When he spreads his legs, asking, Joseph lets his own legs slide apart without hesitation so their bodies can slot together.

Like this he knows his own sinfulness more starkly than ever. His cock throbs and aches when Joseph moves against him, twitching when Joseph pants into his neck with damp and desperate breath. He inhales the hot smell of Joseph’s skin, imagines what it would be like to profane the Father with his own unclean mouth and taste the salt of Joseph’s sweat. The thought makes his cock leap, even as his stomach clenches with guilt again. When Joseph’s hand curls then twists tight in his hair, he welcomes the burst of pain.

“He said unto me…” Joseph’s voice is strange, almost fragile. “My grace… is sufficient for thee, for my strength is made perfect in weakness.” And then both Joseph’s arms are around him again, Joseph’s heart pounding fast through his chest as Joseph weeps into his shoulder. 

It is because of what he has done, he knows, but even the shame of it is not enough to drown out the insistence of his lust and his body’s response when Joseph presses forward with jerky desperate movements. Little sobbing breaths escape Joseph each time they rub against each other, and he feels himself respond to that too, horror and desire quivering together deep in his gut. 

“My grace is sufficient,” Joseph says again, muffled through his shirt, and then only one arm is around him. Joseph reaches between them, hand feeling its way across his chest and down over his belly until it pushes into his pants and finds his cock, drawing him fully out. 

The touch is sudden, warm and assured. It’s gone before he can make a sound or a movement in response and then Joseph is fumbling between them again, the back of Joseph’s hand grazing him in the process with light, unintentional touches. He groans through his teeth and forces himself to be still, waiting. 

Without warning Joseph thrusts against him. He slides against Joseph’s body, the damp warmth of skin with a brief roughness of hair, and then Joseph’s hand is around them both. The touch comes with a shock of intensity, his cock pressed shamelessly up against Joseph’s own, hot and slippery and hard, and Joseph’s hand holding them together. 

_ Your grace, _ he thinks, the memory of Joseph’s voice piercing the warm static of his mind. Joseph slides slickly against him, hand tightening, and he groans. Every touch hurts like a physical wound. To think that he took all of this grace, all of this touch, years ago without gratitude or care makes him sick. He deserves none of this. 

A sob shakes Joseph’s body, making them jolt against each other. He chokes off another sound at the friction, biting the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. 

What he wants is gathering within him against his will, churning and tightening in his stomach until he can barely think to hate himself for his selfishness. He thrusts up into Joseph’s grip, his own hands moving distractedly over Joseph’s back as he bites at his cheek again to offset the thrill of desire that runs through him. After all he has been given, to allow his body to take its pleasure first and leave Joseph with nothing… he can’t bear the thought. The part of him that strives wants him to tear himself away, to fall to his knees again and offer up his mouth and let himself be used there until his own desires fade. 

Again he is too weak to strive. In desperation, praying that Joseph will take his weakness too, he pushes a hand between their bodies too, hears Joseph gasp when he presses them tighter together. Refusing the urge to give in and dirty himself, he arches up, rubbing himself intentionally against Joseph in the cage of their hands. 

With a last little sob, Joseph trembles and spills over him, spattering his cock and the back of his hand with wetness. His body aches to reply in kind, to thrust forward and find his own pleasure, but he denies it, holding himself motionless as he makes his hand loosen and fall away. 

Joseph breathes damply into his shirt for a long few minutes, each breath slower and more even than the last. He holds himself very still, ignoring the heat and pinpricks of pain that twist under his skin when Joseph’s hand shifts where it still rests around him. 

Eventually Joseph takes a long breath in. The air is cold on his skin through the wet spots in his shirt left behind when Joseph raises his head. “Open your eyes,” Joseph says.

He had forgotten they were closed. He obeys. The weak artificial light bathes everything in a flickering glow — the mess of papers around the room, the empty dark aquarium, the worn tabletop, his hand on Joseph’s back when he looks down. His eyes sting. Before he can think better of it, he tilts his head down to look between them, his swollen red cock pulsing helplessly at the sight of its own proud obscenity and the Father’s hand around him, gentle and forgiving. 

“I am ready to come to you,” Joseph murmurs into his ear, and through the roughness of tears in Joseph’s voice, he hears almost the hint of a smile. His heart leaps within him. “And I will very gladly spend and be spent for you.” 

Joseph’s hand tightens around him, permission and boundless grace.  _ The Lord do so to me, and more also.  _ His body surrenders. Light pours into him.


End file.
